Mistislaus was a wizard. He was old, absentminded, and his potions and spells barely brought in enough money to put food on his table. In short, he was the last person who could be expected to raise a little girl -- in the normal run of things. But since the Dark Elves had overrun Fairholm -- slaughtering any who resisted -- nothing ran in a normal course. Like it or not, Mistislaus found himself saddled with a baby. He called her Skyla. And Skyla, he soon learned, was a witch . . . Little Skyla grew up knowing that she was no ordinary orphan -- she was heir to the proud name and magic of the true rules of Fairholm. And so she dared to dream. She learned from old Mistislaus, and she roamed the moors, learning the languages of animals. She molded tiny figures of mud and spittle, and she brought them to life. And she dreamed of avenging the parents she had never known and of claiming the fabled lost treasure the Dark Elves could not find . . .